A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [101]
“If there is any course of action, and I’m not saying there is, any operation has to be a dead-bolted secret,” Arne said.
“What about your bureau, Skye?”
Arne shook his head. “It must be a Colorado operation. Even the ATF can be penetrated. It’s like this, safety locks on guns have just been voted down by the Congress for the fifth time. Any leaks to the gun people would be a disaster in this kind of hit. Now, let me ask you, Governor, what kind of people you have leading the Guard and state troopers?”
“Reb Butterworth is adjutant general of the Guard. Colonel Yancey Hawke is chief of the troopers. I’d split a secret with them. In fact, both are seething to make a raid.”
“I like your chances with those three people,” Skye appraised. He inched closer to Quinn.
“Could you order a special two-week training course for seventy guardsmen and thirty troopers?”
“Training courses and seminars are ongoing. We’re always plucking some stupid climber off the top of a mountain, tracking forest fires, drug busts at the state lines, dusting for insects.”
“Crowd control?” Arne asked.
“We practice that drill regularly. Will the people in these courses have any idea of what we’re after?”
“No,” Arne said. “Anything you don’t understand about it?”
“No,” Quinn said.
“If you want to bust AMERIGUN’s ass—” Arne began.
“I want to bust AMERIGUN’s ass,” Quinn replied.
“We are bypassing the FBI, the United States government, and the Denver police. As far as the ATF is concerned, we don’t know nothing. Capische?”
“Capische,” Quinn repeated.
“We may have the stars in perfect alignment,” Arne said. “Number one, it has to be a big haul, hundreds, maybe thousands of weapons. Second, it has to show up in Denver during the convention. Third, someone of rank in AMERIGUN has to be connected to the weapons. Finally, the action must be swift and bloodless.”
A ruckus broke out in one of the nearby pleasure rooms. A half dozen men stormed out of the cantina and hauled off one of their buddies lest the police arrive and detain them all.
Arne Skye got up. The low ceiling made him look taller than he was. “If you’ll have Butterworth and Colonel Hawke form up a hundred men for special training, I’ll contact you, through Dawn Mock.”
“We’ve got no deal, Arne.”
“You do need help, right?”
“You’re hedging your bets. I want you to show me that card you’re hiding up your sleeve.”
The governor had it figured out correctly. Arne would stay in as long as he wasn’t exposed. He would give the signal for a bust, maybe not. If the bust worked, there would probably be no investigation, for it would shut the mouths of Congress. If it went sour and was traced to him, so long career, and the governor might as well go back to Troublesome Mesa and stay.
Thirty years at the bureau, Skye thought, coming down to a single moment, possibility of gunfire, maintaining secrecy, and going over the head of his director. Shit!
Arne Skye had spent his life on the edge, sometimes completely ignoring his superiors, their mandate, and sometimes bypassing the odds, but a miss here would mean the guillotine.
“You look like you’re in need of religious help,” Quinn said.
“I know why I came to Denver,” he shot back defensively. “If I knew what I know and failed to try to prevent it, it would end up as my legacy. I’m an honest cop, Governor, but I don’t mind cutting a few corners.”
“When I took office,” Quinn replied, “I thought I was going to come out Maytag sparkling. It doesn’t work like that, does it?”
“It’s hard for guys like you and me,” Arne said. “This is the most important potential bust of three decades in the bureau. What do you know about the VEC–44?”
“It’s some kind of machine pistol,” Quinn answered.
“You betcha,” Skye said. He took an arms case from his suitcase, unzipped it, and laid the weapon on the table. It was tiny and lightweight, had a three and a half-inch barrel, and weighed under three pounds. Modified to become fully automatic, it used powerful 9mm hollow-center ammunition, and had oversized clips holding a thirty-five-round